The Man in the End
by sc3arlettsketch
Summary: Ella Stanton arrives at 221B to try to convince Sherlock to let her stay with him, despite their bad blood. But where is Sherlock? Post-reichenbach. Rated M.


"Get the fuck out of here, you fucking slag!" The manager yelled at me as he practically threw me out of the restaurant. Tears did not fall down my face. I held not a single emotion similar to sadness nor regret. Raising my eyebrows swiftly, I pulled myself up off the floor and dusted myself off. The door slammed shut behind him and I ran a single hand through my hair. As a few hairs caught and mingled momentarily with my palm, also causing a slight pain to shoot through my nervous system, I brought my hand back down and examined the damage. A slight abrasion upon both palms met my eyes. Could be far worse. Now, it was time to get out of this godforsaken place.  
It was difficult to even call the place a restaurant. The only food they served was peanuts. Everything else on the menu only contained several names of alcohol to be served. And on the back side, you could order a private lap dance from the list of girls. Each night I had worked there, I was hit on every single time. I did not participate in the stripping activities ever. My name was not on the list of women. I did not have a brilliant body like many of the women there. I was mostly skin and bone. But every time I passed any drunk man, their hands grasped at me incessantly. I often had to shove them off. There was nothing in my contract I originally signed that stated I must consent to the needs of the men in the place. However, my manager decided tonight I had turned away far too many customers due to my 'prudeness' in the past. Today, I had merely been on my way to deliver a few beers to a table across the restaurant and as usual, a man's hands groped me as I passed by. Disgusted, I decided I was done. Quickly I drowned the man in the alcohol I possessed. He ran away drenched and having a fit and I was thrown out. Well, shit.  
I am on my own. My rent is due in exactly three days and today was the day I was supposed to receive my paycheck. I am so screwed. My parents are dead. My previous parents are dead. And, from what I've been told, my original parents are in prison for several counts of murder. This leaves only one person.  
I knocked a few times on the door. All of my money was officially gone now, due to my flight from Ireland to London. This is my only chance. I waited. Finally, the door opened. I opened my mouth to speak but only found nothingness as I faced a middle-aged woman drying her own tears away.  
"I'm frightfully sorry, my dear. Please do come in. I'm just having a wee cry and I really wasn't expecting visitors. Come in, come in. Don't mind me. I'm assuming you're here about my ad in the paper?" the woman sighed. She wiped at her face furiously and I stared blankly at her. I really was not good at dealing with sad people. Hesitantly, I stepped into the residency and followed the woman to her own place.  
Her flat wasn't especially lavish, but it did indeed reflect the woman's personality. Several doilies laid about, her only furniture had a floral print and she already had tea ready. She guided me to one of her sofas and I sat down.  
"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Ms. Hudson. And you are?"  
"Hello, I'm Ella." I muttered awkwardly, looking about the flat. Ms. Hudson did not hesitate in preparing me a cup of tea and passing it right on to me. I took a slow sip and set it down onto her table.  
"So, which flat caught your interest? B or C?" She smiled weakly. I swallowed nervously.  
"I'm actually not here about your flats. I'm looking for Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? I recently found out he resides in 221B supposedly. It seems that you are selling that vacancy however. Where is he now?" I inquired. Ms. Hudson's face blanked. She sputtered quickly, her eyes blinking rapidly, breath shallowing.  
"He's gone."  
"How do you mean gone?" Ms. Hudson stood up and paced around the room.  
"Why have you not read the news? It's been all over the papers. Even now, it still hasn't blown over quite yet."  
"I'm not one that reads the paper often. What are you talking about though?" I raised an eyebrow.  
"My dear...Sherlock has been dead for three years."


End file.
